All I Want for Christmas Is Crime
by Aleine Skyfire
Summary: December Challenge 2016! Yes, I'm resurrecting this to finish it! Day 16: Holmes finds he just has to let Watson have his way sometimes...
1. Day 1: All Soft Inside

**Intro:** It's _December_ again, can you believe it? Much thanks to HadesLordoftheDead for running this challenge year after year!

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 _From Wordwielder: Bristly_

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 _Disclaimer: We in the U.S.A. are just a few years away from the entire canon being in the public domain, and I can't wait!_

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 **==Day 1: All Soft Inside==**

Davy Wiggins frowned at the newest recruit of the Baker Street Irregulars, who hung back in the crowd of two dozen boys. "Wot's the matter, Kelly?"

The little Irish boy looked down at his threadbare shoes. "Nuthin'."

"Well then, come along! Mister 'Olmes needs to 'ear wot yew told me."

"Oi think 'e's a bit scared o' the Guv'nor," Peter Wiggins murmured into his older brother's ear.

Ah. Of course. Kelly hadn't yet seen Mr. Holmes in a _good_ mood… Davy crouched before Kelly to look the boy in the eye. "Kelly, lad," he said gently, "is that yew're a wee bit scared of Mister 'Olmes?"

Kelly's green eyes didn't quite meet Davy's blue ones. "'Course, Oi ain't scared o' 'im."

"Listen, me boy," Davy continued in his gentle tone, "Oi know 'ow prickly Mister 'Olmes can be sometimes. But 'e's a good man—'e treats us fair an' 'e takes care of us. An' d'yew know wot?" Davy's voice had taken on a conspiratorial tone. "Oi'll give yew a little secret. Yew want somethin' from 'im? Somethin' small, understand, not terribly impor'ant. Yew just look at 'im an' make yewr eyes as _big_ as yew can. 'E's all bristly on the outside, but inside 'e's all softy, 'onest."

Kelly's mouth upturned slightly as he processed that.

Davy stood straight again. "Now, c'mon, let's go." He held out his hand, and the little boy took it. On the way to 221B, Davy smiled as he felt Kelly's grip relax.

And, thankfully, they _did_ find Mr. Holmes in a good mood that day.

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 **A/N:** ...I still need to finish my prompts from last year! *gulp* And before I do that, I need to find where exactly I wrote down my ideas for those prompts! *double gulp*

Okay, so, some of you longterm readers might remember Kelly. Kelly is basically my son, okay, and I should get to know him better: he's _my_ Baker Street Irregular. He pops up, even if only as a passing mention, all over the place, including mine and Ria's _Doctor Who_ crossover!

Wish me luck with this challenge, too! This is my first time doing it while also working full-time (yes, I _finally_ have a real job, yay!).

Oh, and one final thing: I make _no_ apologies for the title of this year's set, lol.


	2. Day 2: The Soldier's December

_From Wordwielder: First snowfall_

 **==Day 2: The Soldier's December==**

Watson chose to walk home from his locum practice—better to save the cab fare when the cold air was dry enough not to plague his shoulder. 1 Shops were beginning to array themselves in festive greenery, and it cheered his spirits to see it. He had missed only two Christmases abroad—one in India and the other on the Orontes—but this time of year seemed more precious to him now than ever, even now, his second December back in Britain.

He was studying the decorations of a shop across the street when something in the air caught his eye, white and feathery. _Snow!_

The winter he'd returned to England had been a bad one. He and Holmes had scarcely moved into 221B when the worst blizzard of the century hit the lower part of the island, assaulting the British with ice age-like fury for two days. 2 Winter had not been kind to him or his injured shoulder that year. By contrast, the next winter, that of 1881-'82, had been mild. There hadn't been enough snow to make a fuss over; just a chill damp that had been just as harsh on his wound as the previous winter had been. 3

And now large, fluffy snowflakes filled the air, drifting gently from the iron-grey sky.

Watson grinned—his first proper first snow in four years. Tired old London was transforming into something magical. He wanted to quicken his steps, see if Holmes was still home and if he had ever entertained any such sentiments and, if not, if he could be convinced to do so...

But the beauty around him was too precious to hurry through it. Holmes could not completely understand, anyway—no one could understand the wonder of a first snow, when one had been two Decembers without it, unless they experienced it for themselves.

The softness, the quiet, the beauty… in this moment, it belonged to Watson alone.

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1 Watson's only known injury in STUD is his shoulder; in SIGN, 6 or 7 years later (depending on your chronology), he has what seems to be a _recent_ injury in his leg. William Baring-Gould (at least, I'm pretty sure it was him) speculates that Watson was injured two separate times but, in an ironic twist, with the same kind of bullet—it's one Baring-Gould headcanon that I actually like. So just now, Watson isn't walking with a limp yet.

2 For real, there was a LONG, bad blizzard in Great Britain in January 1881, bad enough that it has its own Wikipedia article, I kid you not! Look up "Blizzard of January 1881" (no, that's not actually where I got my information from; I know better than to use Wiki as my sole source!).

3 And the winter of 1881-'82 really wasn't much to speak of. 1883 was when it got snowy again, and the 1880s in general had pretty bad winters. Poor Watson would have had a hard time of it.

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 **A/N:** So, last year, I got this same prompt from someone else and wrote a Mary story out of it. I said in the A/N for that story that the obvious response to this prompt was Watson, so I went with the India-born Mary instead. This year, it was Watson's turn!

And yes, I did a bunch of weather research for 318 words of fic. Sue me.

Oh, and the title came from the Mariah Carey song. :D That's why I said I make no apologies—especially because Holmes would probably hate that song, lol.

(Also, thanks for the congrats re: my job! It's really exciting 'cos it's my first full-time job, my first job out of college, and a job that actually uses what I learned in college! And I have fun doing it! ...it's just the scheduling that makes it _not_ -the-dream-job… :P )


	3. Day 3: Greater Love

_From Winter Winks 221: Death_

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 _This is a sequel of sorts to the Jack Frost story from last year, if anybody remembers that? ("Day 13: A Soul to Take" of Baker Street Carol.) If not, or if you haven't read it, the gist is that folklore figures like Jack Frost and the Grim Reaper are real, and the Grim Reaper is, in fact, Moriarty's true identity. Now, without further ado..._

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 **==Day 3: Greater Love==**

As soon as the telegram from Mycroft arrived, Sherlock Holmes knew what he had to do. The summoning had been simple—in the months leading up to the confrontation at Reichenbach, he had studied his enemy as much as he could, and knew now how to call upon him to simply talk.

He was in Budapest, and he was not kept waiting long.

A nebulous pale mist formed in his hotel bedroom and swirled until it formed into a towering figure… then shrank and coalesced into the form of a man. The appearance of a middle-aged, mild-mannered Englishman suddenly seemed to Holmes laughably ridiculous as a vessel for one of the most powerful beings in the universe… or perhaps, more properly, outside of it.

"Ah, Sherlock Holmes," he said. "What do you wish of me? Are you homesick yet? You'll recall that we agreed you would stay out of England for another two years."

"Yes, I do." Holmes was proud of himself for keeping his voice calm and steady, not betraying his discomfort or his fear. "I have received news from home."

"And?"

"Mycroft tells me that Mary Watson is very ill."

"Yes, she is."

"Will she die?"

"I cannot answer that."

"Surely you, of all people, must know!"

"Of course I _know_ —it is my business, after all—but I am not allowed to simply _tell_ you."

"She cannot die." Holmes refused to beg. Not for the sake of his pride, but for the sense that it would do Mary no good. "She must live. She doesn't deserve to have her life cut short in such a fashion. Watson doesn't deserve to lose his wife."

"Of course, they don't." The being before him suddenly seemed far, far older, and even… Dared Holmes think _sad?_ "So many do not deserve that. Too many. But it happens all the time, nevertheless. Your Watson and Mary are not more important than the rest of mankind, Holmes."

"They are to me."

Moriarty sighed. "I cannot change her fate. Not simply because you ask."

"And you won't take me in her place?"

Moriarty studied him closely. "You're serious about that, aren't you? No, Holmes, I'm afraid I'm not allowed to touch your life. I was willing to rebel once but I cannot do so now."

"There must be something I can do! Something that can be done!" Unwillingly, desperation crept into Holmes's voice. Poor Watson had already lost a friend, as far as he knew—and his brother before that, and now his wife! The love of his life, the heart of his heart! And Mary! Mary was the kindest, sweetest person Holmes had ever had the privilege of knowing, a bright light in a dark world, just like her husband. She had to live. They had to have a family, to grow old together, to see their grandchildren…

Moriarty was silent, merely watching Holmes from underneath hooded eyelids. Waiting for him to reach a conclusion.

And then Holmes had it. "Take something from me. It requires sacrifice, does it not? To save a life this way?"

"Some… have accomplished it, yes," Moriarty said quietly.

Holmes knew he couldn't possibly fully understand what he was about to say. He wouldn't know until he had lived it. But Mary's life was more important. "Take my ability to be a detective."

"Absolutely out of the question. Your skills as a detective are needed in the grand scheme of things."

"But how can I make a greater sacrifice than that?"

"Indeed, how can you?"

Holmes's mind raced. The solution crept up on him until it filled his mind with its rightness. And then he had to swallow the rising lump in his throat. _But Mary's life is more important_. "Take my music," he whispered.

Moriarty studied him again. "You cannot take it back. You don't understand yet what it would mean, to live the rest of your life unable to play your violin or any other instrument."

Holmes's vision blurred, despair seeping into his heart. "Mary's life is more important than any talent of mine by far. For her—" his voice broke, and he had to clear his throat—"for her continued and long life, take my music."

Moriarty stared at him for another long moment, then shook his head slowly. "You humans never cease to amaze me," he murmured. "Very well. For Mary's life, your music."

Holmes did not physically feel any different. But a certain emptiness seemed to have taken up residence in his mind, emptiness where _music_ should be. He fell to his knees, and when he looked up, Moriarty was gone.

He breathed a prayer of thanks that his nemesis was gone. Then he folded in on himself and let the tears come.

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 **A/N:** ...I think there will be a sequel to this one. :'( My poor, poor detective… *hugs him*

When I first got this prompt, all I could think was "Mary." She's been on my mind a lot lately, thanks in a big way to the upcoming season of _Sherlock_ , and I've been bitter about her fridging in the canon. So… take this as a defridging. Mary and John _did_ deserve better, and I will shout it from the rooftops until my dying breath.


	4. Day 4: The Tragedy of London

_From mrspencil: An Irregular is missing_

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 _ **Warning:** Minor character death, offscreen.  
_ _I am sorry. I am so, so sorry._

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 **==Day 4: The Tragedy of London==**

Geoffrey Lestrade returned home one night looking older than his wife had ever seen him before. She waited until he was out of his coat and hat and shoes, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and a large bowl of soup, before she said anything. "What happened?" she murmured.

His face was drawn and paler than its wont, his large dark eyes deep with sadness. "Did you know that one of the Baker Street Irregulars was missing?"

She nodded. "Cooper, yes. Alan told me." Alan was one of her many nephews, the son of her brother Lloyd—and Alan had joined the Irregulars a year ago.

"His body was found on the riverbank." Geoffrey's voice had that quality to it wherein he was trying to stay calm, but just below the surface, he was deeply troubled.

Annie covered her mouth. _That poor little boy_. And all the other Irregulars, his mates—they had never lost someone from amongst their own number before. Family, naturally. Other friends and acquaintances, certainly. But not each other. She knew only too well how close-knit their camaraderie was.

"Mr. Holmes identified him." Geoffrey's voice still had that achingly distant tone to it. "The poor lad might have gone completely unidentified—one dead street urchin in a city where a dozen penniless children die every day?—but he had a unique birthmark. Mr. Holmes had told me about it, and I passed it on to my constables. Adams found him."

Annie wrapped her arms around him from behind, his body tense, rigid. Holding back a storm. "I'm sorry," she breathed. Geoffrey himself had been a street urchin as a child, looking out for other children like him until one kind constable took him off the streets and put him through school. That was why he was the only detective in the Yard who got along with the Irregulars. He understood them.

"Dear God, the look on his face," Geoffrey whispered. Annie knew her husband didn't mean Constable Adams. "You could see the grief and the guilt rip through him until he slammed that mask of his back down into place. You know the one—you've seen it. The one where he pretends to be all brain and no heart. But he was grieving all the same."

Her chest aching fiercely, Annie began to massage Geoffrey's shoulders. "Do you know how it happened?"

He shook his head. "Mr. Holmes might look into it, for his own peace of mind, but all we know is that the poor thing's neck was snapped." Annie flinched, and he turned slightly to give her an apologetic look. "Could have been another child, for the pettiest reason. It happens all the time; I doubt Mr. Holmes will find anything."

Annie knew her husband was probably right. It was the tragedy of London: so many innocents murdered for nothing, and so poor that hardly anyone else would give them a second thought, for in any city, it was always the same: the poor, the children like the Irregulars who might not even know their own ages, were invisible.

"Come, love." She kissed his hair, noting that he hadn't touched his supper at all. "Let's get you to bed."

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 **A/N:** I DON'T KNOW WHY I DID THAT I AM SO SORRY. :'( I really don't know why that was the only working solution my brain came up with in response to that prompt. Look, I didn't _want_ to kill off an Irregular. I _adore_ them. _That's_ why it wasn't told from the POV of Wiggins, Holmes, Watson, or even Lestrade!

 _Fortunately_ I can promise a much happier response to the next prompt. This one… just wasn't going to be it. I'm sorry.

I'm also sorry I'm already behind and that I've barely been reviewing anybody. _I feel like a horrible hypocrite_. My only defense is that I'm barely churning out my own stories, I do have a full-time job, and I'm also dealing with a fair bit of depression right now. But from what I've seen, everybody's doing great thus far! Lots of fun! Keep up the good work, y'all!


	5. Day 5: The Light of All Lights

_From Riandra: An unlikely angel_

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 _I told Ria I would do this if I got the chance: write stories in the Starlock 'verse if I got any prompts that worked that way. If you were around last year, you might recall her "Starlock" or Star Wars/Sherlock Holmes crossover in the midst of her_ _Good Holmesians All, This Christmastide_ _. Afterwards, she gave me permission to pick up the reins of the story, and I got as far as starting what should be the first episode,_ _Star Crossed, Episode I: A New Path_ _, posted to our joint account, Wholmes Productions._

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 **==Day 5: The Light of All Lights==**

" _There are darknesses in life and there are lights,  
An_ _d you are one of the lights, the light of all lights._ _"_

—Bram Stoker, _Dracula_

Thirteen-year-old Sherlock Holmes was absolutely certain that if he spent any more time cooped up in the Jedi Temple, he would go mad. He had been without a home for two years, and the sudden enforcement of one he couldn't leave without a chaperone grated on him for the next two.

Thus, he made plans for a temporary escape. He noted potential unguarded exits, and the times during which Master Nusep would not be looking for his company, until at last, one evening, he made good on his study. He wrapped a cloak tightly around him to conceal his Padawan braid and atrocious haircut as he wended his way away from the Temple into the heart of Coruscant.

It was _fascinating_. So many people, so many different species and languages, so much data to absorb! Mos Espa had never been this vibrant!

Nor this dangerous. Tatooine was one of the slaving hubs of the galaxy, but Sherlock was getting the impression that a staggering number of the Coruscanti population was enslaved or indentured, but it was also a world of one trillion inhabitants. Crime ran rampant down on the lower levels, and law enforcement could do very little about it—hence why Jedi children and teenagers were never allowed out on their own.

...and he was beginning to wonder if maybe he shouldn't have tried to talk his classmate Vic Treor into coming with him… he was almost certainly being followed…

Two humans—a boy and a girl—a Rhodian, a Trandoshan, and a souped-up combat droid—and the organic members of the gang were all adolescent.1 Not that it much mattered, with those numbers. He could try to run, but he almost certainly couldn't fight them all. Even his combat skills, advanced for his age and lack of training thanks to experience in street-fighting, wouldn't protect him from this gang.

But, unfortunately, he wasn't seeing a lot of options in the way of giving them the slip. Not even a crowd—he had stupidly let himself wander onto a quiet street.

He turned and met the reptilian eye of the Trandoshan, who then moved ahead of his comrades. Ah, the leader, then. "Give yourself up, boy," they growled, "and it'll go easier on you." The next moment, Sherlock finally noticed the stun batons they were all armed with, and the manacles hanging from the Trandoshan's belt. Teen slavers. Wonderful.

Casting about for a makeshift weapon, his eyes fell upon a small support strut that had been cast aside. That would do. He darted over to it and hefted it. No use if they decided to use their blasters, but if they were looking for undamaged goods…

"Let him go," rang out a young but strangely muffled female voice, and then Sherlock realized what he should have sooner: he was also in the vicinity of another Force-sensitive. The owner of the voice stepped out of the shadows, bearing a gun that seemed a full half her adolescent size. She wore a dusty, grease-splattered grey jumpsuit and a black headscarf, fastened to her jumpsuit and leaving only her bright blue eyes exposed.

The Trandoshan laughed, and the slaver girl spat at the newcomer. "Who do you think _you_ are, police or something?"

"Nah. I'm just the kid who's gonna damage your very expensive-looking droid friend there so badly that you're not gonna be able to put them back together."

The droid beeped something—in Binary, Sherlock realized, and he knew Binary.2 _"I can take her,"_ the droid had said.

"Forget it," the Trandoshan hissed. "Not worth it. They'll get hurt and their value will go down." An _intelligent_ Trandoshan? Well, wonders never did cease… "Next time, humans!" The reptilian figure turned and began to walk the way they'd come, their lackeys following.

Sherlock glanced at his rescuer, and the girl didn't lower her gun until the gang was out of sight. Then she set it down with a sigh of relief. "I am really glad that worked. For a minute there, I was afraid you were gonna be toast."

"I was going to be a slave." Sherlock's voice sounded painfully unsteady to his own ears. But he was the first freeborn child in his mother's family for generations! Being caught like that would have meant more than losing his freedom—it would have meant letting his family down. "You saved my life. Thank you." He set down his makeshift weapon and held out his hand.

The girl took it and shook it firmly, eyes glimmering with delight. "You're welcome. So. I won't tell if you won't tell?"

Then she _was_ a Padawan. "I guess not," Sherlock said ruefully. "I'm Sherlock Holmes. Pleasure to meet you."

The blue eyes widened. "Sherlock Holmes?!" She tugged down her scarf… and Sherlock almost forgot to breathe. She was beau… _no, stop that, you're a Jedi, remember? Thoughts like that aren't allowed._

" _The_ Sherlock Holmes?" the girl continued, oblivious to his stare. "The kid from Tatooine the Jedi Council bypassed the age restrictions for? Pleasure's all mine! I've heard so much about you—everybody says you're a genius!"

Sherlock blushed. "Hardly, or I wouldn't have been caught out here like that."

"Everybody makes mistakes. I'm Beth. Beth L'Straid. C'mon, let's get out of here." She tugged at his sleeve and started. "By the way, if you wanna make a habit out of coming out here, you should get yourself a blaster. Doesn't have to be as big as that—" she nodded at the weapon she was leaving behind—"but it's a good idea for protection."

Sherlock looked back at the oversized blaster. "Not yours?"

"Nope! Found it. Had a feeling I'd need it, and sure enough! So, are you gonna do the Thing?"

"What thing?"

"The Thing where you go telling somebody their life story based on everything you've noticed about them."

He blushed again. "Maybe."

"No, c'mon! I'm curious! What can you tell about me?"

"Well, you're Corellian."

"Could be Mid-Rimmer."

"Could be, but the difference between the Corellian and the Mid-Rim accents is the consonants. You pronounce your consonants harder than a Mid-Rimmer would."3

"Ah."

"Also, the fact that you still _have_ a Corellian accent rather than a Mid-Rim or Core-World one—" the two predominant accents in the Jedi Temple, Sherlock had noticed—"implies that you were taken from home older than usual, too."

Beth nodded. "My parents gave me up when I was three. I still remember them." Her voice was wistful.

"Yeah, I know the feeling," Sherlock muttered. The sight of his mother being cut down by blaster fire still haunted his dreams…

"What about you? You're from Tatooine, but you've got a Core-World accent."

"Oh. My father was from the Core; I… think I mimicked him when I was little and then I was stuck with it."

"Ah." Fortunately, she seemed to sense that he didn't want to talk about his family. "So, my accent. Anything else?"

"Well, you're rebellious. Impulsive. Reckless. Aggressive." He stopped, thinking about that. "And you're a Padawan?" She seemed like the very antithesis of what the Jedi wanted from one of their own.

It was her turn to blush. "I was assigned to my master, not chosen by her," she said softly. "I probably would never have been chosen, otherwise—I'm a horrible Jedi."

"No, you're not," he soothed. "What you did for me, that was—"

"Not how a Jedi would do it."

"Maybe not, but it was still brave and selfless."

She gave him a small smile. "Thanks."

"So what _were_ you doing out here?"

"You couldn't figure that one out?"

"Well, I'd say that you were flying…" She looked at him expectantly. "But beyond that, I can't tell what or why."

She smirked. "Okay, you're not omniscient. Good to know." She flashed a teasing grin at him. "Well, and I'd better leave you now. We're getting close, and better if we sneak back in separately than together."

He nodded. "Of course. But what _were_ you doing out there?"

She paused. "Well, I guess that's for me to know, and you to find out." She winked at him and ran off.

He sighed as he trudged alone back to his secret exit from the Temple. "Females."

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1 Rhodians are the species Greedo is from (the bounty hunter Han Solo shoots in _A New Hope_ ). Trandoshans are the species Bossk is from (the lizard-like bounty hunter Darth Vader hires in _The Empire Strikes Back_ ).

2 Binary is the droid language that R2-D2 and BB-8 use.

3 There isn't a whole lot of consistency with accents in the SW universe, but generally, people from the Core Worlds (Coruscant and other nearby planets) speak in refined British accents, and people on the Mid and Outer Rims speak in American/Canadian accents. Timothy Zahn, who wrote for the old Expanded Universe, defined the Corellian accent—Han's accent—as having hard consonants.

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 **A/N:** _Whoops_ , that was really long! So, show of hands: who here knows _Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century_? If you don't, the reason that Sherlock is _in_ the 22nd century in the first place is because of young, _American_ Detective Inspector Beth Lestrade. She's a great character, but she's not always handled the best—for instance, she often sounds angry for truly no discernable reason. It's weird! So when I write her, I tone down the anger and aggression unless she needs it, and play up her better qualities.

And yeah, she's part of an otherwise canon!Holmes/Star Wars crossover—because I've gotten used to putting her in the AUs I write! She's too awesome a character, and her chemistry with Sherlock is just too much fun! Plus, she works very well in providing the tension of a very brave, very good person who is also trying and not succeeding in being a very good _Jedi_ , which is not the same thing.

There may or may not be more Starlock stories later. Depends on the prompts! I almost wrote my backstory for Moriarty and Moran in this 'verse, then decided against it due to the strong possibility of it being too far out of left field for readers to enjoy. Heck, the finished thing might still be too far out of left field. :/

Anyhoo, thank you everyone for your support! You guys are the best! *hugs and smooches*


	6. Day 6: A Very Small Client

_From cjnwriter: "As to my own little practice, it seems to be degenerating into an agency for recovering lost lead pencils..."_

* * *

 _I'm afraid this is going to be_ very _short and sweet. I'm coming down with a cold…_

 _Oh, and to anyone who hadn't read Riandra's Starlock crossover last year, you need to go to her " **Good Holmesians All, This Christmastide** " and read **Days 11: Weighing Anchor, 17: Shaken, 18: Best Laid Plans** , and **19: Better with Two** to meet Moriarty and Watson. Also, on our joint account, **Wholmes Productions** , there is a prologue posted under the title " **Star Crossed, Episode I: A New Path** ," which is Sherlock Holmes's origin story in the 'verse. Thanks so much for the feedback, and I do think now that I'll definitely try to do one or two more Starlock stories this month!_

* * *

 **==Day 6: A Very Small Client==**

"Ah, here it is."

"Oh, thank you ever so much, Mr. Holmes! Here!"

"No, please, Miss Henley, keep your penny."

"But I said I would pay you!"

"Oh, very well. Thank you very much, _mademoiselle_."

"That was very kind of you to help my niece find her pencil, Mr. Holmes, and very kind to take her money, too. I think it made her feel grown-up."

"Mrs. Hudson, _please_ …"


	7. Day 7: The Unstolen Child

_From mrspencil: cobblestones, violin, missing chorister, a hair ribbon_

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 **==Day 7: The Unstolen Child==**

Watson settled into his chair with his book and pipe and looked over at Holmes, who was polishing his Stradivarius. "And where were you all day, Holmes? Running Christmas errands?"

"Hardly," Holmes snorted. His eyes narrowed at Watson's grin. "I was on a sort of case."

"Not a proper case?"

"Not in the sense that I was paid for it, no. Returning a favor, for a friend."

"A friend?"

"An acquaintance. Mrs. Annie Lestrade."

"Mrs. Lestrade!" Leaving aside, for the moment, the question of what sort of favor Annie Lestrade had done Holmes in the past, Watson pressed forward. "Why did she need your help?"

* * *

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, but I didn't think Geoffrey would be able to help, and it seems like exactly the kind of problem you could solve."

"Think nothing of it, Mrs. Lestrade. What is the trouble?"

Annie had sent her nephew, one of Holmes's own Irregulars, to Baker Street with a request to meet her at her church—once he'd arrived, it was clear that she had made the request because she couldn't spare the time to get away. He had to follow her around the building as she explained: "Every December, we have a performance from a 'Christmas choir.' It's comprised of many of the children who come regularly to Sunday School. But one of our girls hasn't been by for two weeks now. No one knows where she lives, so we can't even make certain she's all right."

"I see your dilemma, yes."

"And she lost this." Annie held up a green-and-pink striped hair ribbon. "I found it on the cobblestones outside—and before you ask, there were no signs of a struggle. I did think to look for that. But it seems that it simply fell, and I'm sure she must miss it—it was her favorite."

"Ah. And the details of this missing chorister?"

"Her name is Holly Hayes. She's… I'd say ten or eleven years old. Four-foot-nine, couldn't possibly weigh more than ninety pounds. Pale, thin, mousy brown hair, green eyes…"

"In other words, she could be any little girl in London."

"Exactly."

"Well, never fear, Mrs. Lestrade. The Irregulars and I shall find her."

"Thank you very much, Mr. Holmes. We'll understand if she doesn't return to us, but we hope she's healthy and uninjured."

" _And very much alive,"_ she didn't have to add. Holmes tipped his hat to her. "Of course. Good luck with your preparations for the holidays."

* * *

"And did you find this Holly Hayes?"

"I did, indeed—or rather, the boys found her, not far from Spitalfields. I arrived at her house to discover that _Mrs_. Hayes had recently given birth, and little Holly was needed at home."

Watson's frown cleared in relief. "And Mrs. Lestrade?"

"Promised to visit with whatever aid the family would allow her to give them."

"A decently happy ending then."

"Quite so. And now, dear Doctor—" Holmes brandished his bow at Watson—"what should you like to hear?"

"'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen'?"

"Very good."

As Holmes stood to play, Watson smiled. Holmes would not have admitted it, but he was relieved to have found the little girl well. Children, the doctor had long since noted, were the quickest at stripping away his friend's barriers and revealing an easy laugh, a merry smile, and a kind heart. Any child would have been lucky to have had Holmes as a father… and the Irregulars were very lucky, indeed, to have adopted him as theirs.

Watson leaned back and puffed his pipe, content to simply sit and enjoy the violin's first carol of the season.

* * *

 **A/N:** It took me _forever_ to come up with an idea for this one, hence the lateness! Half the trouble was putting all the prompts together! And it's not nearly as fleshed-out as I would have liked it to be, but… idk, this is just what came to me when I was writing.

Oh, and thanks so much to everyone for the well-wishes! I don't know how long this cold is going to last, but the good news is that I haven't gotten a fever. Head colds make me miserable, but I can live with them—it's fevers that are horrible. *shudder*

And I might not be able to catch up before Christmas, but I at least have the next… three out of four days planned out!


	8. Day 8: The Past Is Too Much with Us

_From mrspencil: a letter from an old friend_

* * *

 **==Day 8: The Past Is Too Much with Us==**

" _The Past is too much with us; and the Future not enough."  
_ —Allen Upward, _The New Word_

Mrs. Hudson called attention to the envelope, noting that there was no return address, but she left the room before Holmes picked it up to examine it. It was just as well she was gone and Watson was out—Holmes stumbled back into a chair at the table, heart beating rapidly at the sight of the familiar handwriting. It was a hand he hadn't personally seen in five years, but he would not have forgotten it had it been ten.

His hands were strangely calm and still as he slit the envelope open—strangely, because his heart seemed to have taken up residence in his throat, throbbing painfully.

 _My dear young friend,_

...and just at that, Holmes was angry. After everything that man had _done_ to him, how _dare_ he call him "friend"?!

 _I was pleased to hear of your removal from Montague Street to a more respectable part of town. Better still that you had acquired a flatmate and a friend; you have never done well being lonely. And it is my understanding that your little practice is beginning to acquire more recognition. Your years of hard work seem to be paying off, and I am proud of you._

He did _not_ want the man's _pride_.

 _It has been a pleasure to watch your career unfold; I have always wished my students success in their endeavors, and you are no exception. I feel proud to have been your teacher, and I should feel equally honored to be considered your friend again._

 _I ask for your forgiveness. You may laugh, but I do feel that I was careless, and needlessly cruel, and for that I am sorry. I wish to make amends, if you are willing to forgive me._

 _I should be delighted to see you again._

 _Yours in contrition,_

 _James Moriarty_

Sherlock Holmes crumpled up the letter. After all this time, after everything the man—his professor, his friend, his _mentor_ , it turned his stomach now to think of it—had done… how dare he ask for _forgiveness_? How could he possibly even trust that the apology was sincere, and Moriarty didn't simply seek to use him again?

Or worse, that he was sorry only for how his actions had _affected_ his onetime pupil, and still sought to use Holmes to further his own ends?

Holmes stood to throw the letter into the fire, and halted. ...God help him, he didn't _want_ to throw it away. He had been close to the professor, once… a kinder relationship than he had ever had with his own father…

He could hate the man, but not enough to burn the letter.

Not bothering to straighten the paper out, he unlocked his drawer in the writing desk, set the letter inside, and shut and locked the drawer again.

He turned to his Stradivarius for comfort, and quickly discovered that he couldn't play properly. His hands were trembling.

* * *

 **A/N:** Yeah, okay, I fell to the dark side while writing _Children of Time_ with Ria—I can't unsee Moriarty as Holmes's former mentor now! I know it's not canonical, but I can't help it: the potential is just… phenomenally huge. Also plays into this thing I have for villainous dads and heroic sons, don't judge me.

This also, btw, is why _Deliver Us from Evil: Mortality_ is getting a _massive_ rewrite. This story kind of plays into that. Holmes is… this is maybe a year after the events of STUD? So twenty-four. (I feel very strongly about Sherlock Holmes _not_ being as old as twenty-seven in STUD.) Golly, _I'm_ actually older than him at this point in time.

The next installment is going to be another story-from-another-story, this time part of the _Children of Time_ universe. It features Beth Lestrade again, but rather differently from last time...


	9. Day 9: The Detective's Wife

_From Winter Winks 221: the Queen's Christmas_

* * *

 _I'm afraid I took a lot of liberties here… So before the story starts, let me explain. This is set in the_ _ **Children of Time**_ _universe, the stories for which you can find under the profile_ _ **Wholmes Productions**_ _. (It's under both mine and Riandra's "Favorites Authors" lists to make it easier for people to find our joint account.)_

 _The way that Ria and I write these stories is that we roleplay them first and then fill in the narrative later. There are quite a lot of scenes that been played out that still aren't written out, yet, and the story you're about to read takes place in the timeline of those scenes-in-limbo._

 _The basic facts are:_ _ **a)**_ _this is a crossover between canon!Holmes and Doctor Who,_ _ **b)**_ _also Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century in a very AU way,_ _ **c)**_ _Watson remarries (Sally Sparrow of "Blink"),_ _ **d)**_ _the Bruce-Partington Plans are the backdrop for the "season finale", and_ _ **e)**_ _Sherlock "Confirmed Bachelor" Holmes marries a young Beth Lestrade._

 _ **Tl;dr:** Queen Victoria meets the new Mrs. Holmes._

* * *

 **==Day 9: The Detective's Wife==**

Windsor Castle was just beginning to dress up for the Christmas season, but Queen Victoria felt that the place looked festive enough for her dinner with the newlywed Mr. and Mrs. Sherlock Holmes. She was glad, of course, to meet the Great Detective at last, but, if she was honest with herself, she was more intrigued to meet the new Mrs. Holmes. Considering, of course, that Sherlock Holmes had seemed to be entirely opposed to romance and marriage, himself, the young lady must indeed be an exceptional person...

Mr. Sherlock Holmes turned out to be as handsome and as charming as the Queen had been told, and considerably better-behaved than his older brother had intimated to her in the past. And the picture he made with his bride was quite pleasing: both were tall—the young woman very nearly of a height with her husband—slender, dark-haired, and light-eyed. Elizabeth Holmes wore an elegantly simple midnight blue dress—a good choice, for it highlighted the brighter blue of her eyes.

"Thank you, Your Highness, for extending the invitation to me," Elizabeth said after the initial greetings. Her American accent was softer than others Victoria had heard, indicating that the girl had spent quite some time in England already. And the girl—and she truly was a girl; she could not have been a day over twenty if even that—seemed as skittish as an unbroken horse behind a thin veneer of respectable calm. Bless the child, she was trying.

"Think nothing of it, my dear. When I learned that Mr. Holmes had recently married, I knew that I had to meet his bride." While Elizabeth blushed, Victoria turned toward Mr. Holmes. "And, of course, I had to meet our finest detective at least once; I have simply never had a good excuse before now. Your brother speaks very highly of you."

The detective looked as though if he would have said something contradictory but thought better of it. "You are too kind, ma'am."

"Not at all. The Empire has long owed you many debts, my dear sir, for services rendered."

He bowed. "It has been my pleasure and my honor."

* * *

She took them on a tour through Windsor, and found Elizabeth's childlike wonder most gratifying. The girl seemed positively dazzled, not unlike a peasant girl from a fairytale, finding herself in royal palace. Her husband appeared to be less impressed, but Mycroft had warned her that that was only to be expected—Sherlock cared little for finery.

At dinner, Victoria made an observation that confirmed a theory she had formed upon meeting Elizabeth. The girl was restraining herself as she ate, as if what she really wanted was to stuff herself like a Christmas goose. She had either grown up poor, or recently experienced a reversal in her fortunes. Her skin was too pale, and her face and body too thin where her own form had intended her not to be.

Once again, Victoria wondered how the couple had met, and under what circumstances they had fallen in love. Given, however, what she had observed of Elizabeth, it was probably kinder not to ask.

That did not, however, mean, that the Queen did not have other questions. She had initially intended to speak more with Mr. Holmes, but his fond expression said that he was clearly enjoying seeing his wife rise to the occasion.

What sort of family had Elizabeth come from? A large one, and she was the second-oldest. Where in America had she grown up? Michigan, ma'am, on Lake Michigan. Was it lovely country? Very much so, ma'am—mostly farmland and woods. What were her interests? Elizabeth faltered a moment before saying "History. And mysteries." And she flashed her husband a quick smile. Did she have favorite writers? Dr. Watson, of course, and Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte. Oh, and Mr. Tennyson—he was her favorite poet. There was something unassuming and natural and beautiful about his poetry, easier to read than other poets but no less elegant. Victoria couldn't fault her taste.

And she also had questions about Dr. Watson and _his_ new bride. "Is she a sweet girl, and worthy of our dear doctor?"

"Absolutely," said Sherlock Holmes, the conviction strong in his tone. Elizabeth's reaction was truly remarkable: she was looking at her husband with the look of one who has worked long and hard to earn something. Mr. Holmes's approval of Dr. Watson's new wife?

Victoria managed to cajole a few brief tales out of Mr. Holmes, as well, and discovered that he did have a knack for conversational storytelling, as one might infer from Dr. Watson's stories. She didn't fail to notice how Elizabeth hung on his every word, her expression a mixture of a more seasoned and steady love with the infatuation of a youth.

* * *

After dinner, the Queen presented Sherlock Holmes with an emerald tie-pin, a small token of appreciation for his service. She would have given him more than that, but Mycroft had advised against it. Elizabeth smiled in delight as it was pinned to her husband's tie, and Victoria couldn't blame her—the sparking green stone brought a faint and becoming green tinge to the detective's grey eyes.

* * *

All too soon, the evening was at an end, and a light snow was beginning to fall outside. Before the couple left, Victoria took Elizabeth aside for a quiet word. "I am indeed pleased to have made your acquaintance tonight, my dear," said the Queen, taking the young woman's hand in her own. "You have been a breath of fresh air, and not only, I daresay, for myself." As Elizabeth blushed, Victoria continued. "I have watched the way that you look at your husband, and the way that he looks at you. I daresay sometimes you find yourself still wondering how you came to be where you are with him?" She nodded slowly, eyes wide. "My dear girl, I have not reigned for so long by being blind to what occurs before my eyes. And I can tell you, quite certainly, that the way that your husband looks at you is the way that mine would look at me. And my dear Albert's love, I never doubted."

"I know… I know he loves me," Elizabeth murmured. "It's just that it… can be a bit much to take in, sometimes."

"I do understand, my dear." The child was still finding her feet. Once she had done so, the Queen had no doubts she would be a force to be reckoned with—and doubtless, such a woman was the only sort of woman the Great Detective would ever consider marrying.

Victoria spoke with Sherlock Holmes privately next. "It has been such a treat to meet you at last, Mr. Holmes. You and your wife are welcome at Windsor Castle if ever you should like to return."

"Thank you, ma'am." They both knew it was a formality: Sherlock Holmes notoriously cared little for the trappings of the upper class, let alone royalty, and his wife was more comfortable without them. They were very unlikely to return to Windsor, at least in Victoria's lifetime.

"I must confess, I should very much like to know how, exactly, this admittedly charming young lady succeeded in capturing your heart, Mr. Holmes. I do not think I exaggerate when I say that it must have been the most difficult conquest in the land?"

The detective blushed. "You may be right, ma'am." His gaze strayed over to where his wife stood, waiting expectantly. "I must confess, I am not entirely certain myself how it happened." His voice softened. "But I do know that she has saved my life, more than once, in more ways than one. I may have betrayed the sentiments of my youth, but I have found that a life ruled by logic rather than love is a cold life, and not worth living."

Victoria nodded. "Take good care of your lady, sir. I think she wants looking after."

He smiled ruefully. "I'm afraid she does."

She watched their coach—one of her own, lent to them for the occasion—drive away through one of the windows. Mycroft had already requested that Elizabeth be excused from an official court presentation, and she had regretfully given her consent. She had enjoyed the couple's company very much—genial and artless—but she also understood: her world was that which neither Sherlock Holmes nor his wife moved through. To have required them to enter it again would have been cruel.

She would have to content herself with this visit. She and Mycroft had much to speak of, when next they met!

* * *

 **A/N:** So, yes, this was the aftermath of "The Bruce-Partington Plans," which took place late November of 1895. It's not unreasonable, I think, to say that Windsor might have had a little bit of Christmas cheer by then.

Um, sorry for the long AU story for a series most of you haven't even read? And also not sorry? I had to do _something_ with the prompt, and my brain said "post-BRUC," when Holmes has his "day at Windsor" with Victoria. And my heart said, "make it _Children of Time_." And _then_ the whole thing ended up being from Victoria's POV. Still not sure how well I actually did with that.

Sorry not sorry for the Sherbeth? (Sherlock/Beth.) They're my babies. And I thought it would be fun to look at them through the eyes of someone who'd never met either of them before.

Next up… something light and probably short. After that, more Starlock (yay!), then something potentially fluffy… And then, I'm not sure about the next two prompts! I guess we'll see!


	10. Day 10: The Puppy

_From Spockologist: A stray dog_

* * *

 **==Day 10: The Puppy==**

"Oh, isn't she adorable?"

"Yes, she is, mum, but we don't know wot to do with 'er."

"Davy."

"Yes, Missus Watson?"

"I have a feeling that you chose to bring this stray puppy to me for a very specific reason. Mr. Holmes might like her but probably wouldn't keep her, and same would go for Mrs. Hudson and possibly even my husband. You think, however, that I am soft-hearted enough to decide on the spot to keep her."

"...Mr. 'Olmes and Mrs. 'Udson are out, and even Dr. Watson isn't 'ere!"

"Mm-hmm. Very well, listen: I can keep her for a few days so that she's warm and fed. But you boys need to find a permanent home for her. Look at her paws—they're large for her little body. She will be a very big dog when she grows up, and we can't possibly have a big dog in a doctor's house."

"All roight, Missus. We'll see wot we can do. Thank'ee kindly for watchin' 'er for us, though."

"Never mind that—get on with you. ...well, little one, you look as though you've been in a few scrapes, lately. Let's see if we can't get you cleaned up..."

* * *

 **A/N:** Mary, yay! :D And all-dialogue on this one because catching up is still the plan. Or at least, not getting further behind. :P

And I really feel like the Irregulars might sometimes try, in that first year of the Watsons' marriage, to take a little bit of advantage of Mary's kind nature. Not in a mean-spirited way, but just to help them out with things like this when the other adults in their lives might not want to.

Next up, more Starlock!


	11. Day 11: Support System

_From cjnwriter: Habit_

* * *

 _This is another **Starlock** story, and takes place something like a few months after __**Riandra's**_ _story_ _ **"**_ _ **Better With Two**_ _ **"**_ _in_ _ **Good Holmesians All, This Christmastide**_ _._

 _Sherlock is twenty-ish and kicked out of the Jedi Order after being framed in a political scandal. He's rescued from a mob beating by Njohn, an alien army medic and this universe's Watson. Ria's thread of Starlock stories ended with the pair about to embark on their first case together, Sherlock headed towards being a private detective on the lower levels of Coruscant._

 _I… don't really have to give a drug warning here, do I? We're in a fandom whose protagonist_ is _a drug user..._

* * *

 **==Day 11: Support System==**

Beth L'Straid strolled leisurely through the lower levels of Coruscant to her destination, her customary scarf wrapped close around her head, concealing her Padawan haircut. If she ever made it to knighthood, she might actually leave off with the scarf, but until then, she felt safer with it on.

It had been almost eight months since Sherlock Holmes left the Jedi Temple, right before the Council could formally kick him out. Beth remembered the rush of anger she'd felt at that verdict, and it hadn't been Dark—it had been white-hot and pure, something she was certain no Jedi Master could ever understand. She'd _burned_ with fury at the unfairness of it—Sherlock had not even had the chance to prove his innocence!

It had taken Beth the next four months to find Sherlock again. He had found himself a home with a Chiss healer, of all people, who worked as a general practitioner amongst Coruscant's infinitely diverse population. And Sherlock, never at ease lying idle, had set himself up as a private detective, tackling the many injustices that the police force never could manage on their own, and aided by his roommate, Njohn. Somehow, too, the idea of Sherlock Holmes being a detective felt very, very _right_ , in a way that Sherlock-as-a-Jedi never had.

Reaching their front door at last, Beth rang the doorbell and waited. A few seconds later, it hissed open to reveal the pale blue skin and bright red eyes of Sherlock's roommate. "Beth, hello, do come in."

As Beth entered the house and, consequently, Njohn's consulting room, she said, "Hello, Sabosen'joh'nuruodo."

He smirked and clapped lightly. "Close. Very close, I must admit."

Beth groaned. "I've been practicing!"

"Well, bless you for that," Njohn soothed.

"Are _all_ Chiss names that long?"

"Not at all. Mine happens to be especially long. So how are you? How are your studies?"

Beth shrugged. "As well as can be expected, I guess. Master Wynntir and I have an off-planet assignment next week."

"How much longer before you face your Trials? Aren't you a little old now?"

Beth snorted, grinning. "Excuse _you_ , I'm only twenty-one! Genius Boy happened to be knighted early, that's all. Most Padawans aren't knighted until their mid-twenties. Speaking of Mr. Private Consulting Detective, is he home?"

"Mm-hmm." The good humor faded from Njohn's chiseled features, leaving a palpable apprehension in its wake. "I think he's in the common room."

Beth frowned. "Okay… thanks…" She walked towards the common room… and found Sherlock sprawled on the couch, staring up at the ceiling, pupils blown wide, breathing shallow, skin paler than ever and lightly beaded with sweat. "Sherlock!"

He startled upright, returning her stare. "Good grief, Beth, don't do that! Don't…" He gestured meaninglessly.

"Don't be shocked that you're high on spice?!" She couldn't believe it—they'd worked _against_ spice smugglers before as teenagers, and he _knew_ it was illegal and stupid! He'd _met_ addicts, for crying out loud! "What are you taking?!"

"It's just glitterstim, and I'm not stupid!" He drew himself up with something like a facsimile of offended dignity.

Glitterstim. The most commonly-used spice and the kind that gave its users a telepathic boost. For a Force-sensitive, the effects _would_ be powerful.

"Beth, it's amazing! You've got to try it."

She gave him a look of disbelief. "You don't need to read my mind to know what I think about that idea."

His expression turned sulky. "You don't understand."

"Oh, you're very right, there—I _don't_ understand. I don't understand how you could do something so _brainless_ and _brain-_ _ **damaging**_ as using spice."

"My brain is _already_ damaged—we've been over this before! The spice helps."

His depression. Most Jedi were neurotypical, with brains and brain chemistry that functioned properly. Sherlock had been one of the few Jedi in the Temple who were _neuroatypical_. The treatment varied according to the problem and the individual.

Sherlock suffered from depression. His master had emphasized meditation as his best defense against it.

"What about meditation? I thought that helped."

"It doesn't anymore," he said quietly.

"Then can't Njohn help you? There has to be a better way to deal with this thing than developing a spice addiction!"

"I'm not addicted! I only use when I'm not on a case."

"You're not addicted _yet_ , you mean."

"Padawan L'Straid, if you refuse to listen to me, then I suggest you leave."

Beth glared at him, wanting nothing so much as to grab his thin shoulders and shake some sense into him. _Calm, calm, calm, a Jedi is calm_ … She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and when she opened them, she only felt sadness.

 _He's going to kill himself_.

The hard look in Sherlock's grey eyes softened. "No, I won't. I promise."

Her chest hurt. " _I don't believe you_." She turned away and left the room, suddenly almost unable to breathe. _This is why attachment is forbidden, isn't it_.

Njohn was still patient-less in his consulting room, polishing his equipment. "How was it?" he murmured, not looking up at her.

Instantly, her anger found a new focus. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He looked up then. "He didn't want me to, and, Beth, I can't just go behind his back like that! And before you even ask, _yes_ , I _have_ tried talking to him about this. We end up arguing, every time, and he won't listen! You _know_ how he is; how stubborn he can be! And now he has an addiction to back that stubbornness up…"

Her anger deflated at the concern in the healer's tone, she murmured, "How bad is it?"

"He uses at least once a day in-between cases now. The dosage isn't large—it's just enough to give his mind and his mood a boost. There _is_ that," he said bitterly, looking down at the floor. "I don't know what to do. He won't stop, he won't try to go to a therapist, and I can't find one willing to come down here! I've felt less helpless treating terminal patients—at least then, I know there's nothing I can do!"

Beth suddenly felt very, very guilty. After a few seconds, she said softly, "He's your first real friend here, isn't he?"

Njohn hesitated, then nodded in mute misery. She still didn't know how exactly he had come to be here on Coruscant, far, far away from his people who weren't even part of the Republic… but she had to imagine that it was a lonely life. Or would have been, if not for a certain former-Jedi-turned-detective.

"Okay. Njohn, I'm sorry—I shouldn't have turned on you. I will… I'll think of something." She reached out and gripped his shoulder gently. "You're not alone in this, okay?"

He looked up, smiling faintly. "You're a very bad Jedi, do you know that? And I'm glad for it."

She smiled weakly back. Yes, she was a terrible Jedi, and she didn't know how to be anything else. "You have my com number. Keep me posted."

"Will do. And, Beth? Thank you."

She could feel his relief in the Force—how long had he been carrying this burden and been unable to relieve it? "No problem. Just wish me luck—coming up with a solution for this ain't gonna be easy."

* * *

 **A/N:** So, yes, Star Wars has its own version of drugs, called "spice". Unfortunately, that was a detail that could fit only too well in a Sherlockian story… I had to make up the details of the effect on Sherlock's physical state, because it's been a decade since I've read the old Star Wars Expanded Universe and I no longer remember—and Wookieepedia wasn't very helpful in that regard!

This might be the last Starlock story for this month, because I feel kind of bad about foisting my AUs on you guys, even if you were all lovely about the first Starlock story! We'll see.

Next up… I think it's time to hear from the Napoleon of Crime properly, and his lieutenant, too!


	12. Day 12: A Gift for the Heart

_From Winter Winks 221: Gift_

* * *

 **==Day 12: A Gift for the Heart==**

Colonel Moran stared at the long package on the desk between himself and his employer. "I thought you didn't celebrate Christmas, sir."

Professor Moriarty arched an eyebrow. "No more I do, but it seemed an appropriate time to give this to you. Do open it; there's a good fellow."

Moran shook his head and tore the paper away to reveal a plain but rather familiarly-shaped case. He opened the latches, and his skeptical expression turned admiring. "Oh, Professor, she's a beauty." He lifted an ornately-carved rifle stock out of the case, set it aside on the desk, then lifted out each subsequent piece as gently as if they were made of china.

"The barrel can pass as a walking stick," said Moriarty," as you can see, but I'm afraid you'd have to wear a large coat to conceal the stock."

"It's a small price to pay." Moran ran a reverent hand over the pieces. "It's much more powerful and precise than a cane gun, isn't it?"

"Indeed, it is. A long-range airgun built for soft-nosed bullets."

Moran whistled as he began to put the gun together, having already had much experience in assembling and disassembling firearms. "That's certainly one to baffle the Yard! Is there a target you have in mind?"

"Not yet, but I felt that you should be prepared. And, I must confess, I thought that you would appreciate it."

"Oh, I do, sir. She's a treasure, and no mistake." Moran looked up from his work, gratitude in his eyes and affection in his smile. "Thank you."

Moriarty favored him with a half-smile. "You're most welcome, Moran. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Professor."

* * *

" _An admirable and unique weapon, noiseless and of tremendous power. I knew Von Herder, the blind German mechanic, who constructed it to the order of the late Professor Moriarty. For years I have been aware of its existence, though I have never before had the opportunity of handling it. I commend it very specially to your attention, Lestrade, and also the bullets which fit it."_

—Sherlock Holmes, "The Adventure of the Empty House"

* * *

 **A/N:** Whoops, that title was a pun in terribly bad taste, sorry. And I passed up the chance to do something fluffy with the good guys and did something darkly fluffy with my evil sons instead. Heh-heh…

The next one is going to be different. Just… _different_. AU-ish but not like the crossovers. And hopefully cute. ;)


	13. Day 13: Kid-friendly

_From I'm Nova: Pests (or not?)_

* * *

 _I'm afraid this might have been partially inspired by a new Sherlock preview clip..._

* * *

 **==Day 13: Kid-friendly==**

Holmes and Watson were reviewing their notes, Holmes trying to make sense of a tangle of a case, when the sitting room door creaked open and two small blond heads poked their way into the room.

"Rose, Arthur," Watson said warningly. "What have I told you about interrupting me and Uncle Sherlock when we're working?"

"We only wanted to watch," said Rose, her large hazel eyes all innocence. Dear heavens, Holmes thought, the girl had learned from _both_ her parents—he saw both Watson and Mary in that expression.

"Please?" little Arthur added. "We won't be in the way. Honest."

Watson looked apologetically at Holmes. "They must have sneaked out on Mary and Mrs. Hudson."

Holmes snorted, much amused—as he often was, even after ten years—by the dilemmas Watson and Mary faced as parents. "Well, if they're that quiet and sit very still, I don't see what harm they can do."

"Oh, they'll think of something," Watson warned.

Holmes glanced again at the children and shook his head. "It's all right, Watson, really."

Watson sighed and waved his eager progeny in. "You two _must_ behave yourselves or Mama shall have to take you home, is that understood?"

Rose and Arthur nodded solemnly and silently, though their small bodies continued to vibrate with excitement.

Holmes chuckled. "Well, my dear fellow, you can hardly blame them if they take after their parents."

"Holmes, _don't_ encourage them."

* * *

 **A/N:** Um… short again? A "What If Mary Had Lived?" This is set in the later days of Holmes's practice, sometime around the turn of the century—Rose is the older child and at least eight here, and her brother... Three or so years younger?

And I am weak for the idea of Watson being a dad. Sue me. :)

As for next up… I'm not entirely sure, so it will be a surprise for everybody! :D


	14. Day 14: Belief

_From Wordwielder: Elves_

* * *

 _I am SO so sorry for the delay—December was a crazy month, and January has been busy, as well. And, also, I got stuck in a rut while writing this. But now it's done and I'm going to do my best to finish the challenge!_

* * *

 _Another AU. I am so, so sorry—seems to be what I'm running on on this challenge. *sigh* I have probably almost a dozen Sherlockian AUs going in my head if nowhere else or with Ria—and this one is mine and Ria's brainchild that may not see the light of day yet for a long time..._

* * *

 **==Day 14: Belief==**

"Doctor, if you don't mind, I should like to have my curiosity satisfied on one point. You accepted my story straight away—and yet humans in this day and age do not often believe in fairytales, which leads me to believe that you have had an encounter before now. Am I correct?"

David Hamish Murray, M.D., regarded the odd, almost-human creature before him. _Almost_ human, for the man could pass as such with a hat on or his hair combed down—down to cover the pointed ears that belied his true heritage. A heritage that had allowed him to spirit David out of a battlefield and into hiding to perform surgery on the army doctor's shoulder wound. That wasn't to say, however, that surgery had been easy: fairies and iron did not mix well.

"I've always believed in fairies," David said softly. "My mother encouraged me and my brother to believe in the Fair Folk, told us many tales. And when I came of an age to decide whether or not to put away such childish rubbish—as it was beginning to seem to me at the time—I saw something that changed my mind forever."

At the fairy's encouraging nod, David continued. "I was on the beach below my family's country estate; the water was at low tide. Further ahead, along the beach, a slender woman appeared, too far away to call to her. Of course it was strange that anyone aside from my family or the servants should be there at all, so I watched her. She drew something that appeared to be a cloak from the rocks, cast off her own clothes, and wrapped the cloak around her. Then, she ran to the water and dove in, but as she did so, her human form shifted into that of a sea lion."

"Ah! Selkies do not come to southern Scottish shores so much anymore; you were lucky."

"Perhaps. At any rate, after that first sighting, I checked those rocks every day for a week before finding my proof—the coat of a Selkie."

"Did you take it?"

David shook his head. "I was tempted—just to meet the Selkie, you understand—but I decided against it. I couldn't trap a lass like that; it wouldn't have been right."

There was an approving gleam in the fairy's grey eyes. "Quite so. Did you ever see her again?"

"Once, when I was older. Never spoke to her. I should have liked to, but she was too fast."

"Selkies are rather more vulnerable than most fairy folk, and they have learned caution because of it. Well, that explains it, then. I fully expected you to think I was a raving lunatic when I told you my tale."

David chuckled. "You may be a raving lunatic among your own kind, for all I know."

"Well, _really_ , Doctor!"

"But you did save my life, so I'm beholden to you. I don't think you told me your name, though."

"Ah, yes! My name is Ciaran Sulairgid. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Doctor."

"The pleasure is all mine."

* * *

 **A/N:** Different names, different circumstances—Celtic fairytales and folklore bleeding into nineteenth-century events—still Holmes and Watson. :)


	15. Day 15: Fire and Water

_From Wordwielder: burnt_

* * *

 **==Day 15: Fire and Water==**

The fire at 221B Baker Street caused considerable distress among the general public. Rumors spread, quicker than the fire had, that it had been a conflagration, and had taken Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his landlady with the building, and that these sordid details were being suppressed by papers and police alike.

The facts were far less lurid, and much more sanguine. Since Holmes's return to London that month, April 1890, the older members of the Baker Street Irregulars had been shadowing him and keeping a weather eye on the immediate vicinity of 221.

Thus it was that Professor Moriarty's arsonist was caught in the act, and Mrs. Hudson evacuated, while the boys put out the fire, which had already irrevocably damaged some of Holmes's case files. Even the Stradivarius case had been burned, though, thankfully, the violin inside remained unharmed.

It took some time for those involved to combat the rumors and reassure the public that 221 still stood, Mrs. Hudson survived, and Mr. Holmes was merely away on holiday… But by then, Mr. Holmes was also reported dead at the bottom of a Swiss waterfall.

So, for many nights afterwards, Rose Hudson's dreams were full of roaring flames and thundering water.

* * *

 _"You haven't seen about Baker Street, then?"_

 _"Baker Street?"_

 _"They set fire to our rooms last night. No great harm was done."_

—"The Final Problem"

* * *

 **A/N:** Wow, I really haven't abandoned this entirely! (I will finish it if it's the last thing I do!) Poor Mrs. H, though… *hugs her*

Btw, I'm so glad people enjoyed the fairytale AU! You just might see more of that in the future...


	16. Day 16: Tradition

_From Riandra: Yule log_

* * *

 **==Day 16: Tradition==**

"Oh, not again."

Watson did not deign to look up from his task at the hearth. "Yes, again. Merry Christmas."

"Watson, for heaven's sake, what is the point of—"

"I have had a Yule log on the fire every Christmas except for on the _Orontes_ — _even in India_. I am not allowing _you_ to ruin a tradition of thirty-one years."

Holmes sighed. Watson did not cling to many traditions from his childhood, but the few that remained were stubbornly observed. Might as well try to move a mountain as persuade his flatmate of anything when the man was determined. Besides, it being a Christmas tradition, Mrs. Hudson was likely to side with her less-troublesome lodger if it came to that.

Really, capitulation was an act purely of self-preservation.

* * *

 **A/N:** Um… wow, am I doing prompts from a year ago? Yes, I am! The plan is that, this Christmas/winter, I will try to get _All I Want For Christmas Is Crime_ stories and _Baker Street Carol_ stories (December 2015!) wrapped up completely, so that _next_ Christmas, I can start on a new December challenge with a clean slate! Now if only some inspiration will hit for the remaining… 29 prompts, oy.


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